


thus in winter, summer sang in me

by erlkoenig



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, Tolkien Secret Santa 2017, masquerades and gratuitous snow, that's not a Fëanor joke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-02-20 16:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13150572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig
Summary: “You will have to tell me of what you saw when I found you stargazing,” He murmured, low like the coo of a dove, so that only Fëanor could hear him and at his words the elf’s face seemed to light up.“The bells will ring soon to end the feast and they will go back to their dancing and drinking,” Fëanor said, lifted his glass to his lips to cover his words. “Find me then.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts).



> For Feanope/Sleepless_Malice, for Tolkien Secret Santa 2017

The light of Telperion cast the sky in white-gold, the softly falling snow like gems in the air, shimmering bright and brief as they fell to blanket the land. Music drifted through the open doors of the Hall, punctuated here and there with snatches of conversation, laughter from the masked revelers inside. 

"My lord Manwë, we are truly blessed by your presence here tonight," Finwë said, a delighted smile upon his face beneath the golden mask he wore. "You are enjoying yourself?"

The Vala laughed, the sound like the gentle twitter of songbirds. "I am, of course I am." At this Finwë straightened, pleased and with a graceful half-bow of deference made his way back inside to the feast. Manwë watched him leave, eyes searching the crowd through the doorway for even a glimpse of the one he had come to see, but as it had been all evening he could not find him. Every raven-haired elf that passed him caught his eye and yet left him wanting, and he began to despair that the eldest son of the king had not come. He lingered there, half wanting to leave in his disappointment and half wanting to search for him; perhaps busy in the forges even now, it would not be unlike him, to throw himself so entirely into his latest work that he forgot the feast or even decided against attending.

But what reason would he give for seeking him out, were he to find him there? Company perhaps, conversation, an interest in Fëanor's work; all true and yet the felt as if they would fall short, and the Vala had little doubt that he would be sent away in so few words. He laughed again to himself, of course he would. Fëanor was exactly that sort, and not even the Elder King could hold his attention if it were held elsewhere.

It was one of many reasons he felt so drawn to the elf, something he thought often that he should curtail about himself and yet here he was.

There was movement behind him and he turned, a rustle of feathered cloak across the deepening snow as something pulled at him, bade him to look and, _ah_ , even masked he would know him anywhere. Face tilted up to the sky, snowflakes dotting his dark hair and resting on the mask -- gold like his father's, set with red gems, the colors of his house -- dusting over his shoulders. How long had he been there, and how long had Manwë not noticed, so preoccupied with his own thoughts.

He thought to call out to him but he did not, stepped silently to move closer until he was by his side. They stood together in silence a while longer, until Manwë followed his gaze upwards, wondering what it was that had Fëanor's attention. Bright silver clouds hid the sky from them but the snowfall seemed to take the place of stars, falling on them.

"It is beautiful," Fëanor said at last, voice as soft as a whisper.

"Does it inspire you?"

"It does," Reluctantly he turned his head, and there was a sort of half-smile that tugged at the corners of the elf's lips. "But my father has asked me to attend his feast so it will have to wait."

"I did not think anything or anyone could tear you from your work," Manwë teased, but the smile fell and he regretted his words, gentle as they had been. "I did not see you earlier."

"That is because I have only just arrived." 

Good. Manwë thought, and if the thought was tinged with a bit of jealousy, a sort of greed to be the first to catch Fëanor's attention this evening, he did not think further upon it. "The feast will be beginning soon, though you have missed most of the dancing."

Fëanor merely shrugged at this, and Manwë wanted to touch him then, something, any sort of contact. The elf was a distraction, and he thought as well that he should take his leave now but he did not want to. He reached for him, and beneath the mask he saw Fëanor's eyes flicker from his face to his hand and back again. He reached still, tucked a short strand of hair behind Fëanor's ear and wondered how he would look with magpie feathers braided in it, clasped with silver and blue instead of gold and red.

"I am surprised to see you here, my lord." Fëanor said, "I thought you preferred to keep the company of the Vanyar during feast days."

"Even I can tire of poetry and songs." _I wanted to see you_ , but the words died on his lips, he did not dare say them and yet he ached to.

“We should join the others before you are missed and my father thinks that I did not attend after all,” and yet there was a note of hesitation in Fëanor’s words that made Manwë’s spirit give a thrill, a hopeful thrum that believed the elf wished to stay here longer with him and only him. 

Bells rang from inside, bright and clear in the cold air, drawing revelers to their tables for the feast and the spell was broken. Fëanor turned to the sound, a sigh escaping him. 

_Just a little longer,_ Manwë thought desperately, but already Fëanor was moving to join the others, and he found himself following, pulling his cloak tighter around himself. 

“Your mask does not conceal you,” Fëanor said, glancing back over his shoulder, and the flash of a teasing smile seemed in that moment more beautiful than the snowy stars or the light of the trees. “Sit with me.” A hesitation, and then, “Please.”

“Yes.” Manwë said. _Anything._

The long tables were set, decorated with holly and fir branches tied with red ribbons, candles in golden dishes, their light glinting off the many intricate masks slowly removed. Embarrassed lovers quickly changed seats as their partners were revealed to not be who they thought they were. It was easy to be drawn into their joy, their fun, and yet Manwë could not take his eyes off Fëanor, sat at his right. The mask was dropped onto the table and Fëanor shook his hair free, letting it spill over the shoulders of his simple red robes. 

“A waste of time, I suppose.” 

Manwë shook his head, picking up the delicate thing and turned it over, “Your work, I presume.”

Fëanor huffed, “Of course.”

“May I?” He asked before he could stop himself, tracing the gems set like constellations around the eyes and down over the cheeks of it. Fëanor stared at him, as if he had not heard him correctly, or perhaps offended by the request. 

The elf turned his head sharply away, reaching for his wine glass and mumbled, “If you wish it.” But there was pride in his dark eyes and Manwë drew the mask closer to himself, guarding it as if it were a precious thing. And in a way, it was.

“If you look here,” Fëanor said suddenly, pushing his plate away from himself and reaching to touch the mask. He was speaking quickly, a flush over his cheeks as he explained the intricacies of the design, the etchings along the sides, the bezels that held the gems in place. They were pressed close now that Manwë could smell the perfume in his hair, something deep and rich and earthy, intoxicating like a fine wine. Fëanor’s shoulder pressed against his as he leaned nearly over him, and Manwë was lost in the cadence of his voice, lilting over him like music, heedless of the words he spoke. He could be telling him anything and he would be lost all the same, though he hummed and nodded at all the right places so that Fëanor would continue. Across the table from them Finwë beamed at them and Manwë felt a flash of something, perhaps guilt but he could not -- would not stop it. 

_Nothing good can come of this,_ and it was like a lightning flash, this urge to catch Fëanor’s chin, tilt his head towards him and claim a kiss from him. 

“Fëanor,” Finwë chided gently, as if intervening to save him. “You must eat something.”

Fëanor sat heavily, chastised, and Manwë gripped the mask tighter, trying to rein in the emotions that flooded him. 

Conversation drew him out of his brooding, though he had little to contribute, choosing silence and feigning interest. When the talk turned to politics, Fëanor shifted and fidgeted next to him, his food promptly forgotten, pushed around on his plate as the hours ticked away slowly and Manwë wanted nothing more than to gather him up and carry him far away where it could be just the two of them.

“You will have to tell me of what you saw when I found you stargazing,” He murmured, low like the coo of a dove, so that only Fëanor could hear him and at his words the elf’s face seemed to light up. 

“The bells will ring soon to end the feast and they will go back to their dancing and drinking,” Fëanor said, lifted his glass to his lips to cover his words. “Find me then.”


	2. Chapter 2

He lost track of him somewhere in the feasting. How often does the Elder King, the Lord of all does grace the Noldo with his presence and he find himself at the mercy of their songs, their gifts, their ways.

He saw, if only for a moment, a flash of dark hair in the crowd, moving through the throng, through the bodies there and for all he wants to follow he is caught up in the celebration,

Perhaps it is all too late; he breathes in deep, cold air in his lungs. He should go home, go back to his mountain perch where the ways of his Father are more black and white but he hesitates and it is yet his undoing.

There he is, color against the blinding white of the snow, burning bright against the cold.

Fëanor, staring up against the sky, burning bright like some ember; like something he knows better than to touch and yet.

And yet.

“Will you tell me what you saw?” He asks, a murmur as soft as snowfall. Fëanor turned to him then, a smile upon his lips.

“Do you, o Elder King, not know the joy of mine own heart? I thought you knew all?”

He wanted to pull him close, to wrap him in wings of black and white, to spirit him away and hoard him like some great treasure. It would have been so easy, and perhaps he would have gone willingly; or, perhaps in time, he would come to love the cage.

“Tell me,” He begged, his mouth dry, a rasp of a whisper.

Fëanor spoke of jewels, of the creation of his own hands, something to rival all the works of the Valar and yet Manwë stood there, enraptured, just listening. Wanting. 

Wanting to possess, and for a moment he thought of his brother and all his selfish machinations, and for a moment he was afraid.

But oh, Fëanor, with his earnest eyes of molten silver. 

For a moment he was a fool.

“It is beautiful.” He said, his tongue heavy and numb in his mouth. If this is what it means to fall well --

He looked then at those eyes, like gems in the dark, bright even against the white of the snow.

Then this is what it means to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> moringottos.tumblr.com


End file.
